


All part of the ritual of the Freak.

by bbchavemercy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bullying, Dark, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Verbal Abuse, bitchy parents, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbchavemercy/pseuds/bbchavemercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a freak. A worthless freak. And he knows it.</p><p>Trigger warning for self harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be too harsh, this is the first piece of fiction I've written since Year 8 or 9, at least 2 years, and this is my first ever fan fiction. Constructive criticism is welcome! 
> 
> This does ramble on quite a bit. And this takes place pre-season 2, because I said Sarah was dating John.
> 
> I could go on and on about all the things that bother me about this, but I won't. You can just see them for yourself :)
> 
> I may or may not continue this. It's a bit of a vent, I s'pose. Also, I like self harming Sherlock fics. I'll just shut up now.

 

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the cool, wooden floorboards of his bedroom. The silence hung heavily in the air; Mrs. Hudson was asleep, and John wasn't in the flat. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Tonight was 'date night', and John was out with Sarah. Sherlock hated thinking of John with that cow, he could do so much better. John was special, Sarah was dull, boring, _worthless_. He spat the word in his head, the tone laced with venom. The same word in the same tone his father had used with him, on his mother, on Mycroft, on anyone who would believe it.

"Freak." Sherlock flinched at the noise in his head.

"Freak." " _Freak_." "FREAK!". A hundred of that word, uttered, whispered, _screamed_. All aimed at him. A hundred separate voices, Sally Donovan (or, 'the bitch', as he referred to her in his head. Never aloud, though, he wouldn't stoop to her level.), his schoolmates, his dealer, and his father yet again. His father was never as vicious as the bullies, the insults tamer and fewer, nevertheless, they stung a thousand times worse. Because it was his _father_. A member of his own family. The one that was supposed to protect him, to tell little Sherlock that he was loved, that the cruel children were just jealous, that Sherlock was most definitely _not_  a freak, or worthless, or anything other than unique. But no, that was not the man he lived with. The man he lived with was too busy working or drinking to care about the feelings of either of his sons. And his mother wasn't about to be defending anyone. She couldn't even defend herself. "Weak," Sherlock thought bitterly. He didn't know who was the weakest. His father, for drinking, for hurting his family with his sharp words and for not taking any responsibility for any of his actions, or his mother, for standing by, helpless, _useless_  as her husband drank his life away and bullied her family. Or was it Sherlock himself, for caring, for crying, for fueling the flame with his hurt feelings. Sherlock decided it was in fact he himself that was the weakest of the lot. After all, bullies prey on the weak. And that's what he was, what he is, what he's always been. Weak, worthless _FREAK_.

Sherlock took the lid of the shoebox. Ah, there they lay. The keys to his sanity. Odd, just like him. A school compass, a few razor blades, and a fair amount of tissues. Sherlock didn't smile, no, that would be too cliche. He knew that what he was about to do to himself was wrong, he knew that if John ever knew- no. Sherlock would never let John find out. He _couldn't_  find out. Sherlock would never let John, his John be hurt by what he did to himself. He had already hurt John enough. Because for some inexplicable reason, he cared about John. And for some unfathomable reason, which Sherlock couldn't figure out for the life of him, John cared about him too.

Sherlock grimaced. Too many thoughts, swirling around his brilliant mind, stringing themselves together, one after another in nonsensicle manners, all of them fighting one another for dominance. When he lost control, it was madness inside that head of his, and it had been far too long. He needed to quiet those thoughts. All he wanted to do was to calm them down, just for a while. The thoughts he banished, pushed down to the deep, dark corners of his mind were escaping, rising closer to the surface, like bile in the throat.

Sherlock reached for his compass. It proved a better distraction than the blades. A razor wound'll bleed a whole hell of a lot, but when you make that cut you can barely feel a thing. A compass on the other hand...

Those compasses you find in the pencil cases of children, if you just touch the point to the skin, just drag it across lightly, not even enough to break the skin, it hurts. It _stings_. Imagine the sweet, sweet pain when you bear down hard, drag it through the sensitive skin of the underside of your forearm. And again. And again. And _again_. The same line, hacking through your own flesh until the blood flows freely, the stinging pain overruling those thoughts you just don't want to think anymore. This is what Shelock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, quite possibly the greatest mind in all of Great Britain does so very often, to push away those darkest, most overwhelming of thoughts.

So many pretty lines decorate Sherlock's pale forearm. Scars, scabs, and all stages in between, covering the delicate flesh. And the smaller number of lines on his thin wrists, from the times when he grabbed a razor blade, simply because he wanted to watch his blood beading up, trickling down the crease of his wrist, then flowing freely from his self-inflicted wounds. Because he hates himself so much, and sometimes he just wants to watch himself hurt, to bleed out on the floor of his bedroom.

But for now, he didn't care about the self-hatred, he disregarded the guilt. Right now, he simply needed to clear his mind. He couldn't _think_. He needed to flush out his overcrowded mind palace. He lifted the simple school supply and placed the sharp tip against his left forearm.

Scrape. He heard the horribly beautiful scraping as he dug through the skin of an old scar, opening it up once more. Slashing, again and again, deeper and deeper, until blood seeped through the skin, staining the sharp tip. Time to move on to a new spot. So mechanical. All part of the ritual.

Angry tears spilled over, streaming down his face, emotions ruling Sherlock as he tried to tear them up and and bleed them out of himself. All the thoughts he couldn't quite manage to delete bubbled up to the surface. Why couldn't he control this? He was all about control. But all he could think about were those horrible things.

"Get out of my sight! Sherlock, get the FUCK out of my sight! Don't you fucking DARE tell me what I think, you little _FREAK_! What makes you think you can say that to _Me_? Huh? You have no right, you friendless, worthless _FREAK_! Now, I don't want to have to say it again, GET THE _FUCK_  OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Many different one sided conversations aimed at him, taking place during many different stages in his life, but as soon as all his thoughts escape to fly around loose in his head, those drunken words his father screamed at him all those years ago always end up making an appearance. Everything hurts so much.

Again and again, Sherlock attacked his arm. So many thoughts, so many feelings, so much pain, please, please make it stop! The _screaming_  inside his head. The drugs used to help, but when Lestrade found out about it, he said it was the cocaine or the cases. And above all else, Sherlock _needed_  the cases. He had to distract himself somehow. He needed to keep his mind occupied. But sometimes it was weeks, even months before Sherlock could get his hands on a case. And in those gaps in between, he just couldn't cope. That was all there was to it. Too frail, too _weak_  to even stand living with himself.

Blood on pale skin. Probably the most beautiful (terrible) thing he had ever seen in his entire life. His scars, so lovely (disgusting) in his eyes. But they didn't matter. The bad thoughts were locked back up in the deepest, darkest dungeons of his mind palace (for now). Everything was right (so, so wrong) again. All good (so very, very, bad) for the time being.

Sherlock pulled out his tissues and mopped up the excess blood, pressed some more against the cuts to staunch the bleeding. When it was all over, all cleaned up, Sherlock balled up the tissues and chucked them in the bin. He didn't worry too much about John seeing them, John rarely entered Sherlock's room, and even if he some blood on the tissues, he would just assume that it was the cleanup from some sort of expiriment. Sherlock rolled his sleeve back down, covering up his scars and fresh wounds (Sherlock never bothered with bandages for wounds inflicted with the compass), hiding all evidence that anything ever happened.

All part of the ritual. All just part of the ritual.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there's lots of things wrong with this, I might fix it up later. And also, for dates and cases, I looked at John's blog. Yay canonical accuracy (ish)! So, yeah, somehow I've moved on to Scandal. Ah, well. Thanks so much for the kind comments, and again, constructive criticism is welcome! Just, don't be too harsh, okay?

20 July. It had been a week exactly since Sherlock and Johnmhad solved the murder of Julia Stoner, or 'The Speckled Blond' as John entitled it on that infernal blog of his. The boredom was eating Sherlock's brain up oncemore, so many unwanted thoughts beginning their quest for dominance again. It was turmoil inside his head again. No, it wasn't a good situation. He needed a distraction, he had to have control. It had been 3 weeks since he'd last cut himself. His arm had healed up, no itchiness, no pain remaining. It felt so _wrong._

Two little girls had come to 221B to see them a little while ago, asking why they weren't allowed to see the body of their recently deceased grandfather, wondering if perhaps it was because he had gone to heaven. Sherlock had simply informed them that heaven didn't really exist (there was no proof that it did, and why should anyone believe in something unproven? If it exists, there's always some sort of proof, if you look hard enough. And Sherlock himself had looked for any sort of proof long and hard, and you can be certain that if Sherlock Holmes couldn't find any evidence, there was none.) and explained cremation. Why did John get so angry with him?

* * *

"Sherlock, you can't say things like that to  _children_! For pity's sake, have some sensitivity. They're barely even old enough to know what death is, you don't need to frighten them, telling them that what they think they know is wrong. And either way, it doesn't  _matter_ what you believe or don't believe in, you have to respect other people's beliefs, even if you think their beliefs are wrong, and that's all there is to it!"

"John, I don't see why I shouldn't make children aware of how the world works simply because they're a child, they're going to find out sometime, and-"

"Or for the- they don't need to find out from  _you_ , a strange man they've never met before. It's none of your  _business_ , and you need to stay out of it. It's not your job to wander 'round, forcing opinions and knowledge on to unsuspecting people like that!"

"John, they did come to me, they asked the questions, and I just answered them honestly."

"I don't bloody well care! They're young children who didn't know any better than to come to you, because they didn't understand death, or what was happening. The least you could've done was to have a little tact!"

"Sociopath, remember?"

"Right. Right, well then. I'm going to go out and get some air. Not that you'd care where I'm going, because you're a sociopath, right?"

"John, I-"

But John had already slammed the door shut behind him, leaving a strange, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

The flat was empty. John still hadnt come back. Sherlock didn't understand. John had tried to explain it, but Sherlock still didn't understand what he had done wrong.

"Stupid, stupid Sherlock. What have you done now?"

This was  _not_ okay! He had made John angry. John had left him nearly an hour ago, and he hadn't come back yet.

"If he even comes back at all," that sly voice in Sherlock's head piped up. "And why would he?" Sherlock tried to stop thinking it, but he couldn't. "You ignore him, or if you aren't ignoring him, you're belittling him, or if you aren't belittling him, you're belittling someone else. You leave the flat a mess, you scare off all of his girlfriends as soon as you meet them, you always try to get your own way, why would he want to be friends with  _you_? John wants somebody that'll actually care about him, and show him some affection once in a while. And no matter how much you want to tell John that you love him, that he's perfect, and kind and amazing, you won't. Because you're too proud, too selfish, too scared. You're the self-proclaimed sociopath, and everyone, including John, believes it. And they'll keep treating you like one if you keep it up, which you will. You don't have friends, Sherlock Holmes, that's just the way it is."

He couldn't take it, he just couldn't take it any more! Sherlock leapt out of his chair and headed towards his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. At the foot of his bed, he prised up a loose floorboard, and there lay his box. He grasped it and brought it out setting ting it down before him. He took off the lid, and once more, the ritual begins.

Sherlock was so  _angry_. Angry at himself for doing it again- hurting his John. Bad, Sherlock! He took out one of his razor blades, so shiny, sharp and new. Gently, he placed the blade to the crease of his wrist. Slowly, he pressed the blade down, small beads of blood already welling up around the blade. Slowly, carefully, he slid the blade across the inside of his wrist, feeling a little pinching as it sliced through his skin.

With the razor blades, it was so easy to create a good, heavy blood flow, unlike with the compass. But like he always thought, the compass is for forgetting and controlling his thoughts, the razors are for punishing. Sherlock made abother cut just below the first one. Press, cut, slide, blood. Sherlock watched the blood dripping from his wrist, spilling over onto the floor. _  
_

John would probably only come back to collect his belongings, to leave Baker Street and move in with whichever girl he was seeing at the moment, and never speak to Sherlock again. He felt a tear slide down his cheek, followed by another, and another, then a relentless flood of tears flowing down his face, splashing down and mingling with the blood on the floorboards. Had he just screwed it up? For good, this time?

Sherlock reached for his compass as the bleeding from the cuts on his wrist slowed. Just two new gashes were made in his arm by the compass this time, just for a little more pain, just to push back that awful thought of Sherlock, by himself again, solving crimes without his blogger.

When Sherlock looked down at the damage he'd inflicted on himself, he thought just one more cut on his wrist would be so very, very good. He placed the compass back in the box and picked the previously discarded razor back up off the floor, wiping off the blood from where he had dropped it with a couple of bunched up tissues. He placed the blade against the thin skin of his wrist, pushed down, and just watched the blood well up before he slowly dragged the blade through his skin.

And at that moment, the door to 221B opened.

"Shit!" Sherlock swore under his breath, fear gripping his heart. His blade had slipped when he jumped upon hearing the door opening, cutting a bit deeper than he'd meant to. He scrambled for tissues, grabbing a handful and pressing them against the wounds, desperately trying to slow the bleeding, while simultaneously struggling to mop up the little puddle of blood he'd made on the floor.

"Sherlock?" John called out. He didn't sound angry anymore. His voice was calm, not a hint of suspicion or worry. He seemed to just be wondering if Sherlock was still in the flat. Sherlock felt a little twinge of relief at that, but the panic remained nonetheless.

"I'm just about to take a shower!" Sherlock replied, hoping his voice remained calm. John couldn't know what he'd just done, not now, not  _ever_.

"Alright," Sherlock could hear John's footsteps heading toward his own bedroom, followed by the click of his door closing. Sherlock let out a breath, then inhaled again, deeply and shakily, the anxiety ebbing away slightly. He packed his shoebox back up and hid it back underneath the loose floorboard. He threw the bloodied tissues in the bin. The ritual had been interrupted by John's entry. It didn't go right. He didn't feel satisfied like he should. But John was in the flat now, and he couldn't cut himself while he knew John could walk in and see him any time. The fear of being caught, the guilt of what he was doing, it was too strong when John was there. It shouldn't matter if John was in the flat or not, but it did. It mattered so very much.

For now, Sherlock did what he'd said he would. He went into the bathroom and took a shower. The stinging pain he received when the hot water ran over his cuts (the most recent one, the one where his hand had slipped was still bleeding a fair bit) helped him feel so much better, more relaxed. It was okay. Nothing too bad had happened. He was still worried that John would 'need to talk' with him once he'd finished showering, followed by theinevitable move out, leaving Sherlock all alone once more. But John hadn't said that they needed to talk when he had reentered the flat. So for now, Sherlock focused on the burning, stinging pain caused be the water on the fresh cuts. He would bandage himself up once he got out of the shower. He would talk with John later. But for now, everything was perfectly fine.


End file.
